The Pact

I walk through the manor in my Conseil uniform, freshly pressed by Dobby. My boots are polished, too, making the encrusted sapphires glimmer and catch the light from every angle.

My boots click on the floor as I walk, heading towards the kitchen where I know Narcissa will be. She likes to make herself tea in the afternoons, then go read by the fire for a bit to unwind.

I pause in the doorway, seeing a familiar head of blond hair in the chair next to her.

Draco.

He looks up when I enter, quirking a brow, but he doesn’t say anything. He just quickly goes back to looking at the paper.

“Narcissa?”

She looks up at me, a fond smile on her lips. “Yes, dear?”

“Have you seen my robes? Things got all mixed up when my clothes came over from school and… my manor, I suppose,” I say quietly, trying to ignore the twisting in my stomach at the mere reminder of my manor. Of the reason I’m here. My parents—my dad. My mother in the hospital.

Narcissa pulls me out of my thoughts. “Which ones?”

“For my uniform? The navy cloak with the silver clasp,” I explain, miming out the placement of the chain closure.

She clicks her tongue before standing up. “Actually, yes, I think I know where they are. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

I nod, watching her walk down the hall. When I turn back to the table, Draco is staring at me.

“Anything good in the paper?” I ask, trying to diffuse the tension.

He shrugs, setting it down.

Not in a talkative mood. Okay.

I move to lean against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other as I fiddle with the buttons on my vest, making sure it’s all aligned. I haven’t been to the Conseil in some time; I want to make a good impression when I get to see everyone again.

“You said that’s a uniform?”

I look up to see Draco still staring at me quizzically. “Uh… yes?”

He looks confused again—he’s getting déjà vu. “For what? Those aren’t our school issued robes.”

“Oh, they’re not for school,” I reply, turning to face him. “This is my uniform for the Conseil Des Sorciers. I have a meeting—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he cuts me off, holding up a hand. “You’re talking about the French Ministry?”

I nod slowly. “If that’s what you want to call it, yes.”

“Aren’t you… I mean, you’re my age. Are you a receptionist or something?”

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. “No. I’m a council member.”

“How the hell…?” he trails off, as if he’s not even sure where to start.

Eventually I just sigh, crossing the room to sit in the chair across from him. “I’ve been a seat holder for a little while now. The positions were mine by birthright. When my parents stepped down—”

“Positions? Plural?” he interjects once more, looking even more confused.

“Yes, plural,” I say softly, giving him all the patience I can muster. “Both of my parents had seats on the Conseil, and they only had me. French law says the seat can only go to the next generation—the next in the bloodline, if you will. To keep the council pure.”

Draco crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. “I see. So since you’re the only one next in line, you had to take both.”

“Well, I didn’t have to,” I say quickly, pulling my wand out of my hair to fiddle with it. “I just wanted to. Usually in this circumstance they’d have me pick one and then the Council would vote on a new member—from a well known family, of course—to fill the empty spot. Then that family would be part of the council for the rest of however long it lasts.”

“But why take both?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, not sure how much I can say without pushing. “It just helped me handle some things. The Conseil let me because there were… extenuating circumstances.”

Draco nods thoughtfully, and I can tell he’s not fully satisfied. “So which positions do you hold, then?”

“Defense and international affairs.”

His brows furrow, lips pressing together as he digests that. “Defense… and international affairs,” he repeats slowly, as if testing the words. “And they just let you—a fifteen-year-old—handle that?”

I shrug. “It’s not like I run everything myself. There are other seat holders in each sector, senior members, advisors, and protocols in place.” I hesitate before adding, “But my votes matter. My voice matters.”

Draco’s fingers drum idly on the table, and for a moment, he looks almost uncertain. “That’s… impressive.” He clears his throat, gaze dropping to the newspaper again, but he doesn’t read it. “I mean, I suppose it makes sense, given your family.”

I watch him carefully, noticing how his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he keeps glancing at me like he wants to ask more but isn’t sure if he should. The Draco Malfoy I’ve always known would’ve scoffed, made some arrogant remark. This Draco—the one sitting stiffly in front of me, awkward and hesitant—he’s still piecing things together, still navigating gaps in his memory.

“Are you all right?” I ask, voice softer now.

He blinks at me, caught off guard. “What?”

“You just seem… different.” I tilt my head, studying him. “Quieter.”

Draco exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

I nod, not pushing, though a part of me aches to tell him everything. To remind him of things he doesn’t remember—can’t remember. Instead, I offer a small, knowing smile. “I understand.”

He looks at me again, something unreadable flickering in his expression. His fingers stop drumming against the table. Then, after a beat, he asks, almost hesitant, “So… this Conseil thing. Do you enjoy it?”

I blink, slightly surprised by the question. But I consider it, twirling my wand between my fingers before answering. “I do,” I admit. “It’s a lot, and I didn’t exactly plan for it, but… it gives me a say in things. It lets me do something.”

Draco nods slowly, eyes still on me. His lips part like he wants to say more, but before he can, soft footsteps echo down the hall. Narcissa.

I straighten just as she reappears, holding my cloak neatly over her arm. “Here you are, dear,” she says warmly, passing it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, standing and slinging it over my shoulders, fastening the silver clasp at my throat.

Draco looks at me again, and it seems like all the words fall out of his mouth before he can string any together. Narcissa hides a smile behind her tea as she picks it up. “I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me.”

With that, she strides out again, chuckling to herself as she leaves me alone with Draco.

At this point, by his face alone, I know what’s happening—I’ve triggered his memory again. Something about the uniform is pulling at a thread, slowly unraveling the memories that should have been erased.

Merlin, I hope they’re still in there somewhere.

He clears his throat, looking back down at the paper as he mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Must that uniform be so tight?”

I freeze, an evil smile slowly spreading across my face. “What was that?”

“What?” he asks, looking up quickly like I caught him off guard. “Nothing.”

I tilt my head slightly as he busies himself with his tea. “Are you checking me out, Malfoy?”

“What?” he shoots back, louder this time. “No! No. I didn’t—as if I would—absolutely not,” he finally settles on, looking away and sipping his drink.

“Pity,” I shrug, turning my back to him. “Because I check you out on occasion.”

He chokes on his tea, and I hear him struggling behind me. I can’t contain my smile. “You what?”

I glance over my shoulder, biting back a grin at his wide eyes and the pink dusting his cheeks. “You heard me.”

Draco blinks rapidly, as if he’s trying to reboot his entire brain. “You—” He shakes his head, scoffing. “Well, of course you do. I am a Malfoy.” He leans back in his chair, forcing a smirk onto his face like it’ll somehow mask the way his fingers are gripping the edge of the table a little too tightly.

I hum thoughtfully, tilting my head. “That’s true.”

He nods, satisfied—until he realizes I’m not arguing.

The redness creeps up his neck, crawling all the way to the tips of his ears. “Wait—so you actually—?”

I turn fully, meeting his flustered stare with a slow, deliberate smile. “You are quite handsome, Draco.”

He goes still.

For a second, I think I’ve broken him completely.

Then, in a truly remarkable display, he somehow manages to get even redder. His mouth opens, then closes. His hand twitches like he’s debating running it through his hair, but he stops himself, clearly torn between playing it cool and absolutely panicking.

“I—well—that’s—” He swallows, straightening in his seat. “Obviously.”

I laugh, shaking my head as I move toward the doorway. “I have to get going. I can’t be late for this meeting.”

Draco stutters, before trying to play it cool. “Will you be back for dinner?”

I turn around, studying him. “Hm?”

“Just… so I can tell mother. If she asks,” he explains, avoiding my gaze.

“Right, right,” I shoot back, leaning my hip on the door frame. “Maybe. It depends on what we’re dealing with today… and how much I need to make up,” I add, saying it more to myself than to him.

He pauses, seeming to regain some of his composure. “Make up? What do you mean?”

I furrow my brow, staring into his silver eyes. “I… haven’t been to a proper meeting in a while. They might need me to work on some extra things to make up that time.”

Draco seems to decide not to press, turning back to his tea. “Right. Okay.”

If I’m not mistaken, he sounds almost… disappointed?

A smile spreads across my face involuntarily. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says nonchalantly, though I see a faint blush creep up his neck. “Have fun then.”

Draco mutters something under his breath that I don’t quite catch, and just as I step out of the room, I hear a soft thud—like he’s just dropped his head onto the table.

I chuckle to myself as I walk to the floo, but I can’t help but wonder—did he hit his head, too, when I obliviated him? Because I’ve never seen him act so… awkward. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Honestly, it’s quite endearing.

I shake my head, amused, as I step into the fireplace and throw in the floo powder. Just before the green flames whisk me away, I catch myself smiling.

Who knew Draco Malfoy could get flustered?

The journey through the floo network is brief, but the moment I step out into the grand hall of the Conseil des Sorciers, my amusement fades. I roll my shoulders back, adjusting my cloak as I straighten to my full height. The warm glow of enchanted chandeliers reflects off the polished marble floors, and the familiar scent of parchment and ink fills the air.

This is where I belong.

Even if I haven’t been here in forever.

Even if I now have other things on my mind.

I push Draco from my thoughts, refocusing on the task ahead. I have work to do.

And yet, as I make my way down the corridor, I can’t help but wonder…

What exactly did Draco mutter under his breath?

~

When I walk back into Malfoy Manor after my meeting, I check the time—half past seven.

Damn, I might have missed dinner.

I brush off the dust from my robes and make my way to the dining room, expecting to see no one.

Lucius and Narcissa are gone, but… Draco is still here?

“Hi,” I say softly, slipping into the seat across from him.

He looks up, and I swear I see something like relief cross his features. “How was your meeting?”

“Oh, it was fine,” I reply, unclasping my robes and handing them to Dobby, who’s conveniently just across the room. “Beaumont was extraordinarily long winded today, though. Apparently he couldn’t just tell us that shipments of potions supplies are running low—no, he just has to go into detail about every single ingredient.” I rub my temples, sighing softly.

Draco snorts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sounds unbearable.”

“You have no idea,” I groan, stretching my arms before reaching for a glass of water. “I nearly fell asleep.”

“Bet that would’ve gone over well,” he muses, tilting his head.

I huff out a laugh. “Oh, absolutely. I can already hear the scandal—‘Lavigné Heir Dozes Off Mid-Council Meeting, Shocking Absolutely No One.’”

Draco chuckles, tapping his fingers against the rim of his teacup. There’s a quiet moment where I expect him to make some sharp remark, but instead, he just watches me. Like he’s studying something he can’t quite figure out.

I raise a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, then adds, “You just—never mind.”

I narrow my eyes. “No, no. You can’t just start a sentence and abandon it halfway through.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You look… different. That’s all.”

I blink. “Different?”

Draco shifts in his seat, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Yeah. More—” He hesitates, then waves a hand vaguely. “I don’t know. Just… different.”

I rest my elbow on the table, propping my chin in my hand. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

He scoffs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I grin. “Too late.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, he clears his throat, setting his teacup down. “You didn’t miss dinner, by the way.”

I glance at the empty table. “Really? Because it looks like I did.”

Draco shifts his gaze, suddenly fascinated by the intricate design of his cufflinks. “I… may have told the elves to hold off.”

I straighten slightly. “You waited for me?”

His ears turn pink. “It’s just… the proper thing to do. Don’t make it weird.”

I bite back a smile. “I would never.”

Draco scowls at me like he knows I’m lying. “Are you hungry or not?”

I lean back in my chair, amused. “Starving.”

He flicks his wand, and within seconds, the house-elves appear with trays of warm food, setting the table as if dinner had never been interrupted.

As I pick up my fork, I can’t help but glance at Draco, who, despite his best efforts, looks like he’s avoiding my gaze.

Maybe he doesn’t know why he waited for me. Maybe he’s trying to brush it off.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he did.

“So,” I start, setting down my glass, “what do you get up to all day?”

He pauses, looking up at me. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I never see you around the manor unless you pass me by to get to some other room. I’m just curious about how you spend your time.”

Draco shrugs, twirling his fork between his fingers. “I don’t know. Reading. Flying, sometimes. Nothing much.”

I tilt my head. “That’s it?”

His lips press into a thin line. “What else is there to do?”

I hum, pretending to consider. “You could always help me in the gardens.”

Draco freezes, his fork slipping from his grasp and clattering against the plate. “Absolutely not.”

I blink at his immediate, almost visceral reaction. “That was fast.”

He clears his throat, regaining some composure. “I mean—why would I? Dirt, bugs, kneeling on the ground for Merlin knows how long—doesn’t exactly sound like a good time.”

I smirk. “You say that like you’ve ever tried it.”

Draco crosses his arms. “I don’t need to try it to know it’s not my idea of fun.”

I lean forward slightly, watching him with interest. “Is it really the dirt, or is it that you can’t imagine spending that much time with me?”

His expression falters for the briefest second before he scoffs, feigning nonchalance. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

But I don’t miss the way his fingers drum against the table, the way his posture has shifted—like he’s tense but doesn’t know why.

I grin. “Alright, Malfoy. Whatever you say.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he picks up his fork again, stabbing at his food with a little more force than necessary.

I chuckle under my breath and take another bite of my dinner, letting the silence settle between us.

He may not know why he’s so on edge around me, but I think I do.

I really, really hope my Draco is still in there somewhere.

After a few quiet minutes, I decide to break the silence once more. I can’t help it—I have no self control.

“Thank you. For waiting up for me.”

He bristles, clearly having wanted to avoid this conversation. “Don’t mention it.”

I shake my head, setting my fork down. “No, seriously. That was… really sweet.”

“I’m not sweet,” he sputters, crossing his arms like an angry toddler. “It’s just the polite thing to do.”

“Why?” I question him, tilting my head. “Because we’re engaged, because you’re a Malfoy, or because I’m a girl?”

Draco stiffens, clearly not expecting me to challenge him. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like he’s buffering.

“I—well—it’s just—” He huffs, shifting in his seat. “It doesn’t matter why.”

I grin, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, but it does. I’d love to hear your reasoning.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Still sitting with me.”

His ears turn pink again. He glances away, muttering something under his breath that I can’t quite catch.

I smirk. “What was that?”

“It’s just because you’re a guest,” he snaps, stabbing at his food again.

I rest my chin in my hand, watching him with amusement. “You know, for someone who insists they don’t like me, you sure spend a lot of time flustered in my presence.”

He glares at me. “I am not flustered.”

I arch a brow, looking pointedly at the way he’s gripping his knife like it personally offended him. “Right. And I’m a house-elf.”

Draco exhales sharply, setting his utensils down with a little too much force. “You’re obnoxious.”

I beam. “And you’re still here,” I reply with a teasing lilt.

He looks like he’s debating hexing me or leaving the room entirely. But, to my surprise, he just lets out a breath and shakes his head.

“You’re lucky I have a reputation to uphold,” he mutters, picking up his drink.

I prop my elbow on the table, grinning. “Oh? And what would you do if you didn’t?”

Draco pauses mid-sip, eyes flickering to me with something unreadable. For the first time since I sat down, he doesn’t look annoyed. Or flustered. Just… thoughtful.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passes. He scoffs, setting his glass down. “Something I’d regret, I’m sure.”

I pretend to gasp. “The Draco Malfoy? Regret something? Never.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s something softer in them now. Something almost amused.

I lean back in my chair, satisfied. If nothing else, I’ll make sure he never has a moment of peace as long as I’m around.

Draco doesn’t say much as we finish dinner, but I catch him sneaking glances at me every so often, like he’s still trying to figure something out. I pretend not to notice, mostly because I’m having too much fun keeping him on edge.

As I set down my fork, Dobby appears beside me, eager as ever.

“Miss is finished with dinner?” he asks, his large eyes peering up at me.

I smile warmly. “Yes, thank you, Dobby. It was lovely.”

Dobby beams, his ears wiggling with delight. “Miss is too kind! Dobby is always happy to help!”

Draco shifts in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches the exchange.

I gather my plate, but Dobby quickly takes it from me with a soft gasp. “No, no! Miss should not trouble herself! Dobby will take care of it.”

I chuckle, holding up my hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. But only because I know you’ll fight me on it.”

Dobby nods eagerly. “Yes, Miss understands Dobby well!”

As he hurries away, I shake my head fondly, before glancing at Draco—only to find him staring at me with that look again.

That strange look. The one that isn’t quite annoyance, but isn’t quite recognition, either.

Like something is scratching at the back of his mind, just out of reach.

I tilt my head. “What?”

Draco blinks, snapping out of it. “What?”

I arch a brow. “You’re staring.”

He scoffs, picking up his drink as if to distract himself. “No, I’m not.”

“You definitely were.”

Draco mutters something under his breath before draining his glass. I can’t tell if he’s irritated or unnerved, but either way, I’ve thrown him off-balance.

Good.

I push back my chair, standing. “Well, I’m going to turn in for the night.”

Draco nods, not quite meeting my gaze. “Right. Sleep well.”

I smirk. “You too, Malfoy.”

As I leave the dining room, I can still feel his eyes on my back, like he’s trying to place something—like he knows something is missing, but he just can’t figure out what.

~

I wake up and go about my usual routine—see everyone for breakfast, help Cissa in the gardens for a little while, take lunch in my room and read for a while. The days are slow, and Draco isn’t wrong—there really isn’t much to do. But even though the days can be long and boring, they’re mine. Not stressful, not anger inducing, not exhausting. Just mine.

Today is no different, until I decide to tidy my room. It’s not messy, just a bit chaotic. Nothing is in its right place because I’ve been hesitant to truly unpack, or to make myself at home so to speak. Because as soon as I settle in, I’m afraid I’ll get uprooted again.

Despite the lingering anxiety, I push my feelings aside and start going through my bags and crates. I pull out all of my clothes and place them in a pile—Dobby will organize them into the wardrobe for me. I move my beauty supplies to the vanity Narcissa had made for me. It’s white and ornate, and way too much, but the thought behind it makes me go soft.

I place my hairbrush and pins in one of the drawers, and I can’t help but think about all the times Draco helped me with my hair. When he took it down for me because I was too tired, collecting the hair pins in his shirt pocket. When he helped me style it up for my first meeting with Voldemort—and helped me get out of my blood soaked clothes and took care of me right after.

That was my Draco. Sweet and gentle and fiercely protective of me.

I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.

I move on to unpacking my makeup, and all of my skincare potions. And wow, does that bring back some memories, too.

“Why on earth do you have makeup remover?” I tease, my voice quiet.

He pushes back some of my hair, smirking. “Bought some after the first time you stayed over. Just in case.”

So thoughtful. So gentle with me… all. The. Time.

Even when I was purposefully messing with him. Like that game of truth or dare in the Slytherin common room—that feels like a lifetime ago.

I take a breath, my lips curling into a mischievous smile. “Alright. Something none of you know…” I grin, earning a look from Draco. “Little Lord Malfoy over here has a ten step skincare routine he does before bed.”

The room erupts into laughter, a mix of incredulous gasps and delighted cackles.

“No way,” Blaise manages between laughs, clutching his sides. “Ten steps? Draco?”

Draco leans his head back against the couch, groaning, though the faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

I was literally on his lap during the exchange.

Ah, fond memories.

The last thing I have to unpack is my shoes. I decide to let the house elves handle it, but before I push them all to the side, a certain box catches my eye.

I pick it up, turning it over in my hands as I remember exactly what it is and where it came from.

The recital. The performance for the Death Eaters.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “But… I don’t have anything with me.”

Narcissa clears her throat, her lips a thin line. “No matter, dear. I was once a dancer myself. I have some unworn pointe shoes in storage that Dobby will bring out for you.”

Just like that, Dobby pops in with a box. I take it gently in my lap and open the lid. Inside is a pair of beautiful pointe shoes, brand new, and exactly my size. How did they know?

I was so thrown off then—I had barely just met the Malfoys. If only I could go back and tell myself how important they’d become to me.

Of course, I know now that Narcissa and I actually are the same shoe size. An odd coincidence for sure, and now looking back, I realize that wasn’t part of the nefarious plot to get me to perform for their Death Eater friends.

Not friends—acquaintances, I correct myself with Lucius’ voice ringing in my head.

It’s a hard potion to swallow, but I know they didn’t necessarily want to do all of those terrible things. They thought they had to. That it was the only way to protect their son.

That doesn’t mean I forgive them, necessarily. It just means I understand now.

I run my fingers along the soft satin of the shoes, lost in thought. It feels like forever ago—standing in the Malfoy dining room, forced to perform as if I were nothing more than a trained pet. My stomach twists at the memory, but as I hold the shoes in my hands now, a different thought surfaces.

I used to love this.

Before the expectations, before the performances meant to impress people I loathed, before I had to wonder who was watching and why—I loved to dance.

The thought is sudden and almost overwhelming. I can’t remember the last time I moved just for myself, without an audience, without pressure. And now that I’ve thought about it, the longing crashes into me all at once.

I need this.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab a pair of leggings and a loose top, changing quickly. I tie my hair back, grab the shoes, and slip out of my room before I can hesitate.

The practice studio is in the east wing, tucked away in a quiet corner of the manor. I take a deep breath and push the door open.

The air inside is still, carrying the faint scent of old wood and the polished floors. Sunlight filters in through tall windows, casting golden beams across the mirrors lining the walls. The space is empty—just me, my reflection, and the quiet hum of possibility.

I move toward the center of the room, kneeling to slip on the pointe shoes. The ribbons feel foreign under my fingers at first, but muscle memory takes over. As I tie them securely, I press my palms against my knees, grounding myself.

I rise slowly, testing my balance. My body remembers this, even if my mind has been too preoccupied to let me indulge in it.

Then, without thinking, I take my first step.

The first few movements are careful, uncertain. I roll through my feet, stretching, letting my body remember what it’s like to be free. Then, little by little, it all comes back—the way my limbs extend, the way my breath syncs with the movement, the way the world disappears when I close my eyes and just feel.

With a flick of my wrist, I start up some music. I’m not sure what’s on the record player, but it’s perfect. Slow, melancholic, and the perfect tempo.

I let myself go.

I move without restraint, without expectation, without an audience. There is no one here to judge, no one to impress. It’s just me and the floor, the way it always should have been.

A slow turn into an arabesque, my arms curving with the weightlessness I’ve always loved. A soft landing into a pirouette, my muscles burning in a way that feels like coming home. I don’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, I feel like myself.

I move until I’m breathless, until the ache in my legs becomes something comforting, something familiar.

Then, finally, I slow to a stop, my chest rising and falling with deep breaths. I stand still in the center of the room, my reflection watching me with something I haven’t seen in a while.

Peace.

But then—movement.

In the mirror, just behind me, the door is slightly ajar. And standing in the doorway, watching silently, is Draco.

I whip around to face him, and we stare at each other for a long moment before he speaks.

“What are you doing?”

I look down at my pointe shoes then back up at him. “Dancing?”

He quirks a brow, but I press on. “What are you doing?”

He seems to remember himself, straightening up. “I was just… passing by. Heard the music.”

“Oh,” I reply with a nod, wandlessly making it stop. “Sorry. Too loud?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, gesturing with his hands. “Not at all.”

I brush a strand of hair back into my bun, out of my face. “Oh, good.”

He lingers in the doorway for another moment before shaking his head. “Sorry, I should—”

“Do you want to watch?” I ask suddenly, cutting him off. “I don’t mind. You can sit in if you want.”

He looks like he’s considering it for a moment—really, really considering it—before he shakes his head. “No, I better not. I have to… anyways. Sorry to interrupt.”

I nod, trying not to let the disappointment show on my face. “Alright. See you later, then.”

Draco hesitates, just for a second, before he nods and steps back, letting the door click shut behind him.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the empty space where he was.

Something about the way he looked at me… It was different.

Not distant, not guarded—not entirely, at least. Just hesitant. Like he was weighing something he couldn’t quite put into words.

I shake the thought away and turn back to the mirror. I came here to dance, and I refuse to let this throw me off.

So I push forward, starting again, sinking back into the movements until everything else fades away.

Nearly an hour passes, maybe more. Time slips away so easily when I dance, and for once, I don’t mind.

I only stop when the vinyl plays out, exhaustion settling deep into my muscles. I lower myself to the floor, stretching, letting my breathing slow.

That’s when I hear it.

A soft knock.

I glance toward the door just as it cracks open, and there he is again. Draco, standing in the doorway, looking slightly less composed than before.

“I changed my mind,” he says, voice careful. “Can I still sit in?”

I blink at him, caught off guard, but I nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and moves toward the bench against the wall. He doesn’t sprawl out like he normally would—he sits properly, hands clasped together, like he’s actually here to watch.

I turn back to the mirror, my heart beating just a little faster.

Draco Malfoy, watching me dance, because he wants to.

I don’t know why that makes me feel something I can’t quite name. But it does.

I push myself to my feet, roll through my ankles, and meet his gaze in the reflection.

“Do you want to pick the music?”

He looks surprised, but he strides over to the record player nonetheless, sifting through the vinyls. He settles on one I know is his—they’re in a separate little pile, much more messily organized than the ones Narcissa keeps.

When the first few notes begin to play, I recognize immediately that it’s strictly piano. Very him.

I wonder if he knows how to play this one.

With one last stretch of my arms, I start again.

I let the music guide me, letting each note seep into my bones, my movements fluid and instinctive. The soft, melancholic melody fills the space between us, weaving something unspoken into the air.

And Draco watches.

Not just in the way someone watches something mildly interesting—he really watches.

His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped together, his sharp gaze following every movement. His expression is unreadable at first, but the longer I dance, the more I see it—

Something shifting.

His brows draw together, but not in confusion. More like… recognition.

Like he’s grasping at something just out of reach.

I turn, rising en pointe, and when I glance toward him, I see it—the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. He’s not just watching. He’s remembering.

Or, at the very least, his mind is fighting for something buried beneath the Obliviation.

The music swells, and I let myself get lost in it, pushing through the ache in my limbs. Not for him, not for an audience—just for me.

And yet… I can feel him unraveling.

Draco Malfoy, the picture of composure, watching me with an expression I can’t quite name—somewhere between awe and longing, between fascination and frustration.

Something in my chest tightens.

As the song nears its end, I let my movements slow, my final turn melting into a delicate landing. My breath is uneven, my skin warm, but I feel good.

More myself than I have in weeks.

The last note lingers in the air, and for a long moment, neither of us speaks.

I turn to look at him fully now, wiping a stray strand of hair from my face.

Draco is still staring, as if trapped in the last few minutes. His eyes flicker with something heavy, something unspoken, something real.

I take a slow step toward him. “Are you okay?”

His lips part, but no words come. He blinks rapidly, as if trying to shake himself from whatever just happened.

And then, finally—

“I’ve seen you dance before.”

The words are quiet, but they send a shiver down my spine.

Because he shouldn’t remember.

And yet—he does.

I force a small, casual shrug, schooling my expression before I let too much show. “You probably have,” I say, keeping my tone light. “One of those Ministry events, maybe. My mother used to make me perform at them all the time.”

Draco’s gaze doesn’t waver. He’s thinking, and I don’t like it. Not because I don’t want him to remember, but because if he tries too hard, it could make things worse.

Obliviation is fickle. It doesn’t just erase—it warps. If he pushes too hard, the gaps in his mind could seal shut even further.

So I smile, walking over to the record player and lifting the needle. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m sure our families dragged us to plenty of the same functions.”

Draco exhales sharply, sitting back against the bench. “Yeah,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t sound entirely convinced. His fingers tap against his knee, restless. “That must be it.”

I nod, feigning nonchalance as I begin to untie the ribbons on my pointe shoes. But I can still feel him watching me, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite match.

Like he knows something isn’t right.

I have to get him off this train of thought.

“So,” I say, stretching out my legs. “Be honest. How bad was I?”

That gets me a reaction—Draco scoffs, rolling his eyes, though there’s the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Don’t fish for compliments.”

I grin. “That wasn’t an answer.”

He shakes his head, but I see it again—that flicker of something in his eyes. The part of him that knows he’s seen me dance before, somewhere much more important than a Ministry event.

But instead of pressing, he just looks at me, his voice quieter when he finally speaks.

“You were…” He pauses, then exhales. “You were incredible.”

The warmth in my chest spreads before I can stop it.

I look down at my shoes, focusing on loosening the satin ribbons. “Thank you.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s charged.

Draco is still watching me. Still searching for something neither of us are sure he’s ready to find.